Page 65 of One For my Enemy

And now Ivan was letting him go.

The anger Stas had not permitted himself to feel about his wife’s death flooded through him in a rush, draining him of his cooler senses and igniting him like a burst, a throb of pain. It was sharp and prickly, knives that tore up from his limbs, and he shoved Ivan aside to bring himself face-to-face with Marya’s murderer, gritting his teeth in anguish.

“What did she look like?” Stas asked coldly, staring at the man who could only be Roman Fedorov. “When you killed her. Did you see her face?”

Roman said nothing, only grimacing, and Stas hit him hard, his knuckles driving into the air in Roman’s lungs and leaving him coughing, spitting, gasping for breath beneath the impact of Stas’ rage.

“Tell me,” Stas growled, shaking Ivan off as the other man moved towards him. “Tell me, you fucking child, whether you were man enough to watch the light in her eyes go out or whether you stabbed her in the back like atraitor,like a fuckingrat—”

“When your wife died,” Roman choked out, lifting his chin in defiance, “she was confessing her love to my brother.”

His lips curled up slightly, taunting, and Stas aimed another hard blow, crushing Roman’s ribs and sending a shooting, stabbing pain up the knuckle of his ring finger; irony, in addition to a poorly aimed throw.

“She,” Roman attempted, coughing again and sputtering, “never loved you—sheneverloved you—”

She didn’t love you, not as she loved Dima—

“No,” Stas said hoarsely, trapping a hand around Roman’s throat. “No, you’re lying—”

“Stas, don’t listen to him,” Ivan said, reaching again for Stas’ arm and dragging him away. “Stas—STAS—”

Stas yanked his arm free and gave Ivan a hard shove, a blow, the impact of both sending Ivan to the floor. “You’re a liar,” he raged, ready to turn on Roman, and in rapid succession—so quick he nearly didn’t see, nearly blinked and missed it all—Stas spun, throwing out a hand, and felt the curse that left his palm aim true.

True enough, or would have been, had nothing gotten in the way.

“No!” Stas heard behind him, a scream that ricocheted around the half-filled walls, and for a moment, he thought it was his wife, his Masha; thought he saw her there, in her favorite coat, a blur of familiarity in a sea of ache and fury.

But it wasn’t Masha.

And it wasn’t Roman his curse had hit.

III. 17

(The Lion and His Gifts.)

Dimitri had once told Lev he had the gift of timing.Always perfect,Dimitri had joked, ruffling the hair atop Lev’s head,right at the sweet spot, when one moment after would be too late, and one moment earlier would be too soon.When Dimitri had first said it, he’d been referring to the way Lev would pull him towards the sidewalk just as the ice cream truck went by or, as they got older, how Lev could always find a taxi, one going by with its lights on just at the moment he raised his hand in the air.One of your little magics,Dimitri had said, smiling as he’d said it, and it was what went through Lev’s mind the moment he saw Stas Maksimov turning, his fingers extending slowly, as if time itself had been stretched.

He thought of it again as the curse struck him square in the chest, the spell finding its target perfectly. One moment earlier, or perhaps later, and it would have been Roman who’d taken the impact in his abdomen, unable to move. But Lev had the gift of timing, and so, in the moment, he thought of how it had served him; of how it had brought him Sasha, who had been there that night in that bar, of all places, at that time out of all possible times; and then, the moment he heard her voice, he thought of it again.

“Lev,” she shouted, leaping over Ivan and shoving a stunned Stas aside to stumble to the ground beside him, taking his hand as she watched the curse bubble up in his lungs and take hold of his throat, his voice, his breath. “Lev, you idiot, stay with me.” She pressed a hand down, easing it, soothing her thumb over his neck. “Stay with me, I’ll fix it—”

“Sasha.” He coughed it up, the impact of the curse still restricting the beat of his heart. “Sasha, I’m sorry that I—I’m sorry about—”

“Don’t you dare die, Lev Fedorov,” she said, her voice as bossy and sharp as always. “Don’t you dare. Not yet, Lev, not yet. We were supposed to have more time,” she gasped, pressing her forehead to his. “We were supposed to have abook,Lev, you promised me a long story, and for fuck’s sake, you idiot,you owe me,you can’t die while I’m furious with you—while I—” She choked slightly, anguished. “You can’t die while I haven’t told you how I—how Ifeel,Lev, fuck!”

“It’s my job to say crazy things, Sasha,” he reminded her, forcing the words out with difficulty. She’d eased the impact of the pain, but only in places at a time; she couldn’t hold it forever, not for much longer, so he held her frantic hands to his lips, helping him to speak to her. “For example,” he coughed up, “how we might have had a very dull life together—”

“Don’t say that.” She was crying now, the salt of it leaking onto his cheeks. “Lev, you stupid idiot, don’t talk like that—”

“—mundane, you know? And probably wonderful.” He choked slightly, gasping, but held her still as she tried to pull away. “Don’t let go,” he said. “This is… peaceful, strangely. Don’t let go, please.”

Behind them, someone else was saying Sasha’s name, but Lev couldn’t hear them. His hearing seemed compromised; he only heard her voice, a solitary strand in the midst of his furious pulse, like a solemn whisper in the night.

“Lev,” Sasha was pleading, one hand curling around his cheek. “Lev, please—”

Lev closed his eyes, holding her hand still against his lips, and pressed a kiss to the tips of her fingers.

“I’ll find you, Sasha,” he said, and felt himself swallowed up inside volumes of nothing, of everything, as if he’d merely drifted off to sleep.

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